The Hands

The hands
They reappear again
This time in a multitude
Clutching wildly at the handles
Flailing
Swaying with the motion of the train
Some fair and plump
Some with red painted talons
Others brown and gnarled with leathery skin
Stretched across the knuckles
Marked with pigments and freckles
And badly chewed nails
Hands that have seen better days
Decorated with gaudy baubles and bangles
That speak of dull marriages
And even despondent lives
Hands that hold on
For dear life